Miscommunications
by singingminstrel
Summary: a modern p and p. Lizzy's a journalist stuck with crap news stories to cover, living in London with Jane. Will Darcy, a footballer for Arsenal, provokes her wrath and gets a good dose of revenge Lizzystyle. Includes Bennets and Bingley of course.
1. In the Beginning

A modern pride and prejudice. tell me what you think!

It was a truth universally acknowledged that any girl out of a university should never be forced to return to the home of her overbearing mother. Lizzy Bennet instead moved to London to begin her career. It was also a truth universally acknowledged that Mrs. Bennet was a perservering woman who would never leave her daughters alone anyway.

The London flat Elizabeth Bennet shared with her sister Jane and her best friend Charlotte seemed much too small. Yes, they resided in a cheaper (even sleazy, Lizzy had to admit) section of London, and the rooms were quite small. It was just the right low price for three working women, however. Besides, Lizzy had her own bedroom—her goal since she was born into the Bennet household.

But now the flat seemed small because there were four additional people inside; and while four people isn't a crowd, four _Bennets_ is always too many.

"Lizzy! _Lizzeeeeeee_!" shrieked Mrs. Bennet.

"What is it, mum?" Lizzy asked as she stepped out of the shower. Mrs. Bennet never bothered to telephone when she wanted to visit, an annoyance of Lizzy's in particular. Lizzy had taken to shutting the blinds on the weekend and ignoring the persistent ringing of the doorbell. The rule of thumb was that she, Jane, and Charlotte would never answer the door right away. If the person on the other side knocked politely after a few moments, they would admit the visitor. If instead there ensued obnoxious banging and ringing of the doorbell (and the occasional "Lizzy! _I know you're in there_, _open up!_"), it was Mrs. Bennet.

And it need not be explained that no one was ever to open the door for Mrs. Bennet if she could help it (though Jane caved in more often than not, damn her!).

It came then as a surprise when Lizzy heard the voice of her mother from within the shower stall. When she was finished she came out, hair dripping, to greet her mother. She supposed she hadn't locked the door of the apartment, which she always did, not because of her mother but because it was practicing good safety measures. Especially when one lived in the seedy area where she did. _Not seedy_, she mentally chastised herself. _It's just the first step in getting my own place. It's not like I'll be living here forever._

"Oh, there you are, Lizzy. I was just telling Jane how you should really keep your doors locked at all times, especially in _this_ area of London. With three women living here all alone—"

"Yes, we should have locked it," Jane agreed.

"Lizzy!" cried Lydia and Kitty at once and they practically slammed into their sister and threw their arms around her. Mary was already perched on a kitchen chair she had moved to Lizzy's keyboard next to the tv, and had dusted off most of the keys before warming up with a Mozart symphony.

"—hear stories all the time of strange men having their way with young women, and in their own houses, too!"

"I know, mum, I work for a newspaper."

"Speaking of which, I do wish you'd find a job at Longbourn. Your dad misses you, you know, and so do I. And Jane could come too, and then I wouldn't have to worry about the two of you here, all alone in a big city..."

"Mum, there aren't any journalists in Longbourn."

"Why, of course there are! You think you have to go to a big city to be a journlist? Bah! We have our own Longbourn _Gazette_, as you well know—"

"Yes, mum, with a grand total of two staff members that report on the weather and local news. I want to be an international coorespondant, mum. You know that."

"And what is your position now?" Mrs. Bennet asked snidely. "The last articles you wrote were about those Chinese pandas at the London Zoo, Ling-Ling and Chang-chong."

"Ching Ching and Chia Chia," Lizzy corrected under her breath. It was still a sore spot. She still couldn't believe her boss had made her report on news of the _zoo_ when her area of expertise was in foreign matters. At twenty-three, she'd worked for the newspaper for two and a half years (one of which was a college internship), and they still stuck her with the unimportant stories, as if she were an intern still. She was a good writer, too, better than some of her superiors. Why was _she_ stuck with all the unwanted stories?

"Well, I have some news, incidentally," Mrs. Bennet said, "and it's news that could affect your future."

Lizzy was used to her mother and couldn't believe this assertion. Mrs. Bennet was known for exaggeration. She went to get a glass of water.

"Well?" Mrs. Bennet said impatiently. "Don't you wish to know?"

"What is the news, mum?" Jane politely asked.

"We've a new neighbor, girls—and he's a young surgeon!" She looked around the small kitchen. "Oh, heavens, Lizzy, there's dirty dishes in the sink...do you always let them pile up like ther? Oh, never mind...but you know what this means, don't you?"

She paused dramatically for effect.

They waited.

"It means he's _rich!_" Mrs. Bennet burst out triumphantly, unable to contain her jubilance.

Lizzy snorted.

"You know, Jane, he's worked at the hospital where you work, it's amazing your paths have never crossed before. Now he's with a private practice, though, finished his training and now shadowing the best of the best! Now, he'll never want for anything in life! He bought that beautiful brick mansion, you know..." Mrs. Bennet sighed. "If one of my daughters would marry Charlie Bingley! Oh, hello, Charlotte," Mrs. Bennet said, and rather coldly, too, as she realized the twenty-nine-year old was present. Mrs. Bennet wished that Charlotte Lucas had not overheard this priceless bit of information; Charlotte Lucas was a neighbor, too, and might have her eye on Bingley.

Mrs. Bennet left soon after extracting a promise from her two oldest daughters to visit the next week. Then she had to take Kitty and Lydia shopping (and drag Mary along with them) so they could drive back to Longbourn before nightfall. Lizzy gave her a hug before they left. Exasperated as she often became with her mother, she still loved her.

A funny coincidence occurred a week and a half later: the meeting of Jane and Charlie Bingley at the hospital where Jane worked as a nurse. Mrs. Bennet had wanted to invite Bingley to her home for a neighborhood supper party during Lizzy's and Jane's visit, but the man had been away. Charlie Bingley was by then a household object of discussion ("twenty-seven and already so successful, and my, what good looks!"), and Lizzy rather thought his name was burned into her brain. She felt like if she were to actually meet him she would let out some completely stupid exclamation of "You're _Charlie Bingley!_ Rich _and_ good-looking!" and embarrass herself.

Mrs. Bennet was severely disappointed that her oldest daughters, and Jane in particular, weren't able to meet Bingley, and more so when her neighbor Mrs. Lucas phoned to casually announce that Charlotte had the pleasure of meeting Charlie Bingley that very morning.

"William had called Charlie Bingley over because Charlie had mentioned he might be interested in buying a fishing pole from us"—Mr. Lucas made fishing poles, as a hobby—"because he was leaving to spend some quality time with a friend, see, and they both wanted to go fishing. As you know, Charlotte and your girls had just arrived the night before here at Longbourn, so naturally I introduced Charlotte to our new neighbor. I would have invited Jane and Lizzy over to meet him as well, but I thought you'd want to all eat breakfast together."

Mrs. Bennet thought that she'd sacrifice breakfast _and_ dinner for Jane to meet Bingley.

"Well, of course she wouldn't _really_ invite Jane and Lizzy over," Mrs. Bennet said to her husband later. "Not when my daughters are good-looking and Charlotte is plain."

"Mum!" Lizzy said sharply.

Mrs. Bennet loved to gossip with Mrs. Lucas, but both were very competitive when it came down to their daughters.

But Mrs. Bennet only had to be patient (a feat, indeed), for Jane ran into Bingley the following week.

Charlie Bingley performed complicated surgeries under the tutelage of Dr. William Grange, a well-known surgeon who had fixed the feet and legs of many British football players. Currently Bingley had to travel with Grange to London for a surgeon conference, with stops in several London hospitals to give presentations of their own (well, Grange was the main attraction; Bingley was just his humble helper). On a lunch break in one hospital Bingley had come across Jane and asked to buy her a cup of coffee.

"Lizzy, guess who I met today?" Jane asked very casually, so casually you'd think it meant nothing to her at all; Jane was reserved, not prone to showing her excitement all the time. She was pretty much the antithesis of Lydia.

"Hmmm..." Lizzy pretended to consider. "The Queen of England."

"No."

"David Beckham?"

"Getting closer."

Lizzy laughed, not realizing that her sister was being serious. "David Bowie?"

Jane had a weird look on her face. "Why is he at all related to David Beckham?"

"They've got the 'David' in common."

Jane giggled. "Oh, Lizzy. Nice guess, but actually this person is very good friends with footballer Will Darcy."

"Really?" All Lizzy knew about Will Darcy was that he played for Arsenal. At least, she thought he did. But she was curious nonetheless. "Who is it, then?"

Jane looked like she was brimming with excitement. "I had a cup of coffee with Charlie Bingley."

"You don't drink coffee. Really, who was it?"

"Charlie Bingley."

Lizzy inspected Jane's face for any sign of amusement. "You're serious? _The_ Charlie Bingley? Two-years-older-than-you-and-good-looking-and-rich-neighbor Charlie Bingley?'"

"Yes, and you wouldn't believe what a fool I sounded like at the beginning. He invites me to get a cup of coffee after introducing himself, and all I can say is, 'Charlie Bingley? Do you live near _Longbourn_?'"

Lizzy cracked up.

"And then—and of course he was a little surprised—he said yes, he just moved there, and I told him my name and that my mother mentioned that we had a new neighbor named Charlie Bingley, once or twice—"

"—or twenty—"

"And that he was in the medical profession. So we talked, and I drank coffee, even though I normally don't, and...he's a very nice person," she finished rather lamely.

"I still cannot believe you met Charlie Bingley! And is he as good-lucking as mum claims?"

Jane blushed. "He is. It's not only that, but you can tell from looking into his face that he's a good person. And he's so sincere."

"You like this Charlie Bingley. I can tell."

"Did I mention he's taking me out to dinner Friday?"

Lizzy nearly fell off her kitchen stool. "_What?_ Why didn't you tell me sooner? That's big news!" Jane just smiled sheepishly. "Well, you certainly made an impression on him. Wait 'til mum hears."

They froze. "Oh Lord," Lizzy said.


	2. The Stranger

Jane and Charlie were going out in the next few weeks, and sometimes Charlie would even come to Jane's flat. Lizzy immediately liked him and thought that she'd never met anyone before who could make anyone around him feel so at ease. He was funny and merry and she felt completely comfortable with him. Jane had told Lizzy the apartment he was renting was much nicer than their flat, but Charlie never minded that they lived in a sleazy—_less nice_, she corrected herself for the upteenth time—part of town.

Lizzy had broken up with a boyfriend three months before, and hadn't had a date since. Instead she busied herself in her work, and was rewarded with a news story about a chemical pollution dump in the English Channel. Apparently the waste had spread to waters off the coast of France. _See? Things are looking up. I'm covering international news now.__Well, kind of international. France _is_ another country...even if no one cares about France..._

Her goal was to be an international corespondant. Lizzy wanted to travel and report in different areas of the world and perhaps even make documentaries about her travels. She'd made a short documentary for her fourth year thesis/project, at Cambridge, about the mountain people of Peru. She had gone to Peru for a semester study abroad to visit Machu Picchu.

She was dismayed to find that the next story she was handed was about the Italian Folk Festival taking place in London that weekend. Oh yes, and Prince William and his fiancee went to visit some nearby restaurant. That was her other story. Lizzy wondered if she should have stuck with languages (she was proficient in Spanish and Chinese) so at least she could be an interpreter and travel. She should have gone to graduate school.

It was a Monday morning, and Lizzy could not contain the exasperated groan that escaped her lips the moment she received her week's assignment: a fashion report involving some of the newer and more dangerous plastic surgeries, and also the return of high-waisted pants.

"Barbara," Lizzy said, through gritted teeth, to her supervisor, "I thought Kiki Meyers does the fashion reports?"

"She's out this week, and we needed someone to fill in."

"You know, I don't know the slightest thing about fashion."

"But we need someone to do the story. You're good at filling in."

Lizzy nearly choked. _Filling in? _ She couldn't be just a filler-inner! She had a more advanced vocabulary than half the other reporters. Good style, too.

Lizzy opened her mouth to argue this injustice, but Barbara held up a hand. "No buts. You'll have that story in by next week." She was rewarded with a famous Lizzy-glare.

"No one really wears high-waisted pants, anyway!" Lizzy said loudly as the other woman walked away.

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"But no one our age really wears high-waisted pants."

"Exactly what I said, Charlotte. But that's besides the point."

"And why you, of all people, to be an authority on fashion?"

"That's _exactly_ what I sa—"

"Why, look at what you're wearing right now."

"Hey!"

Charlotte looked over her friend. "Old plaid shirts don't go with those trousers. What color do you call those, anyway? Salmon?"

"Apricot. Don't laugh, I know they're hideous. Mum gave them to me."

"Why do you wear them?"

"They're comfortable. Velour jogging trousers. I'm only in the flat, anyway, it's not like anyone's going to see."

"You never know. There could be a Peeping Tom looking in the window as we speak."

"That's just...weird. On a not-so-disturbing topic, did I mention I'm meeting Jane and Charlie Bingley later? I'm meeting them at Dolohan's for lunch. Do you want to come?" Dolohan's was a bookstore/cafe. They had great panini.

"No, I have work to do. Just promise me one thing."

"What?"

"Please tell me you're going to change clothes before you leave. At least take off the trousers."

"All right, already!" Lizzy growled.

-------------------------------------------------------------

Lizzy was perusing the bookshelves when she felt a tap on her shoulder. "Lizzy, we're here!"

"Jane! Hi, Charlie."

Charlie smiled his usual cheery smile. "Hi, Lizzy. Ready to get a bite to eat?"

"Yeah, just a minute...I might buy this book."

"We'll get a table," Jane said.

"I'm waiting for a friend of mine, anyway," Charlie said. "He should be here in a moment."

Jane looked surprised. "Oh, you've a friend coming?"

"Yes, he wanted to meet my new girlfriend." Charlie smiled at her. "That's okay, right?"

"Oh, of course! Maybe he can meet Lizzy, too," Jane said with an impish smile.

Lizzy just rolled her eyes and paged through a book.

Jane was out of sight, having gotten a table for them, when Elizabeth found herself in the same aisle as a tall, dark-haired man. The man was absolutely gorgeous, Lizzy thought. He looked to be Charlie's age. He had the well-chiseled facial features of a man and expressive dark eyes. He was dressed in simple but well-made clothes.

Lizzy caught his eye as she was picking up another book, but he looked away, and rather coldly, too. A minute later he walked to the front of the store.

Lizzy then heard Bingley's voice.

"Hey! Glad you could make it," he was saying to somebody. Lizzy peered out from behind a bookshelf and saw that he was talking to the dark-haired man.

"...have to leave in less than an hour," the man was saying to Bingley. "I think I saw your girl at a table outside. She's blonde, right?"

"Yes, she was wearing...come to think of it...I can't remember what color shirt she was wearing."

"She was the only young woman with fair hair, so I assumed she must be Jane Bennet. I admit she is pretty."

"Pretty? She's _beautiful!_" Charlie Bingley declared. Lizzy smiled.

Then she heard herself mentioned.

"Her sister's come along, as well, and she's a cool girl. Actually, I think she's in here right now, somewhere. Let me introduce you."

Bingley craned his neck in search of Lizzy, but she shrank back behind the bookshelf for a moment.

"She was in here some time ago...a pretty girl."

"What does she look like?" The man really didn't seem much interested.

"Longish brown hair, a tad lighter than yours, I think. She's slim, probably five-four or five-five, height-wise."

"Oh, I saw her already."

Lizzy could almost hear the grin in Charlie's voice. "And? Did you meet her, then?"

"No. I wouldn't exactly call her pretty, though."

"Good God, what's wrong with her?"

"It's not like I was actually looking at her for very long. Like I said, she's all _right_, in the looks department, but nothing special. I'm not interested." Charlie started to protest. "However, I will say your Jane is pretty."

Lizzy was mortified at hearing these words from a complete stranger. She usually wasn't too concerned with her appearance, but still...the nerve of him! He didn't even know her. God, he was so shallow!

Lizzy could not stand sitting through an entire meal with the man, so she came out of the bookstore and told Jane she had changed her mind and would eat later.

-------------------------------------------------

A week later Lizzy accompanied Jane and Bingley as they went to a Josh Groban concert; Josh Groban was Jane's all-time favorite singer. Lizzy liked his songs well-enough. Charlie didn't know a thing about him, but bought the tickets because he knew how much his girlfriend wanted them.

Charlie, not realizing what kind of music it was, seemed a little confused when nearly every person around him was a girl.

Jane was in raptures, though, and Charlie was pleased he had suggested this outing. He did manage to spot another guy halfway through the evening.

It was late when they were getting out of the concert, and it was a Thursday; both Jane and Bingley had work the next morning. Lizzy had an assignment to travel to a football match over the weekend to do a story, and so she was supposed to be doing research on the game the next day. She was not, however, required to go into the office.

Bingley was driving them home in his fancy sportscar, but they were stuck behind an endless sea of cars. It was already one A.M. and Jane was tired.

"Listen," Bingley said, suddenly animated, "why don't we stay at my friend's place? It's right in this area, and then we won't have to worry about driving all the way back to your flat in this traffic. Besides, you change into your scrubs at the hospital, don't you, Jane?"

"Yes, but don't you think your friend would mind?" Jane said anxiously. "We wouldn't want to impose ourselves upon him..."

"Not at all. He lives in a pretty big apartment that's well-suited to having guests. I have my own room there, actually," Charlie grinned, "since we spend so much time together. He's probably not in London, anyway. He plays soccer for Arsenal, so he spends most of his time practicing at Highbury or Ashburton Grove."

Jane's eyes grew wide. "Will Darcy?"

"Yeah, Will."

"So you know Will Darcy..." Lizzy mused. "I'm doing a story on the match this weekend between Arsenal and Chelsea, actually."

"Really?" said Bingley, interested. "I didn't know you reported on football."

"I don't, actually," Lizzy said, wincing. "In fact, I don't even know very much about Arsenal. I'm filling in as a favor for another reporter."

"Really? Do you know the rules of football and everything?"

"I used to play football when I was younger, and I played on an intramural team at Cambridge, but I'm afraid I don't keep up with the club teams. I've been doing a lot of research this week, though. Apparently Arsenal is favored this match."

"Yes. They'll cream Chelsea," Charlie said with confidence. "Will said their defense has been playing its best all this week at practice. Will's the prime defender for the team, but I'm sure you know that already from your research."

"Yes. I'll be looking forward to seeing him play."

"It's a shame you left early that day we were eating lunch at Dolohan's, Lizzy," said Jane. "He could have given you some inside scoop or something. An informal interview."

"Who?" Lizzy asked, brow creased. She tried to remember that day, the one when she encountered that horrible friend of Charlie Bingley's and he had wounded her pride. But, come to think of it, she had never discovered the name of his good friend...

"Why, Will Darcy," Jane replied and Lizzy was catapulted to the present. "I did tell you we ate lunch with Will Darcy, didn't I?"

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Lizzy couldn't believe it. The rude man was Will Darcy? The same man whose penthouse suite in which they were now standing? Jane hadn't told her Charlie's friend that day was Will Darcy! It must have slipped her mind.

Lizzy wouldn't have consented to stay here if she hadn't been absolutely positive _that man_ was not there; but she knew that Darcy had been practicing with the team all week, and there was no way he was in London.

They had entered an elegant building that looked like a hotel. There were attendants all around, even at this late hour, and a bellhop immediately recognized Charlie and escorted them all to the seventh floor. There, Charlie opened the door to the apartment with a key attached to his car key ring. Now they were standing inside, Jane and Lizzy staring at the nice furnishings.

"Why does he keep a London apartment?" Lizzy wondered aloud in a whisper. Even though Darcy wasn't in his apartment, for some reason she, Jane, and Bingley spoke softly.

"He comes here often when he's not practicing. His younger sister goes to a boarding school in London, and he likes to visit her when he can. Of course in the summer when she's not in school, he rarely comes here and instead he commutes from his work to Pemberly."

"Pemberly?" Jane asked.

"His home." Charlie grinned. "It's an old mansion, the kind that has its own surrounding area. It's near Derbyshire."

"Wow," said Jane softly. She yawned.

It was agreed that Jane would sleep in the room Charlie usually stayed in, and Charlie himself was taking the second (second!) guestroom of the apartment. He had offered it to Lizzy, but she declined, saying she'd sleep on the sofa in the main living area, the one in front of an enormous television.

So Charlie brought her a spare blanket, and Lizzy was perfectly content to stretch out on the sofa and fall asleep, feeling slightly odd that she was sleeping on the couch of the rude Will Darcy.

A/N: next chapter: Lizzy will encounter Darcy very soon...much sooner than she thinks.

Also...thanks to luckyloser07 and Cricket Maniac for reviewing!


	3. The Morning Encounter

Chapter 3

A/N: Thanks to everyone who reviewed! By the way, Agnes1014, you guessed right

Friday morning. Lizzy yawned and squinted as sunlight filled the room. She saw now that there were a few Arsenal posters on the walls, and a weight lifting set in the corner. She groaned and looked at the clock about the television. It was eight o'clock. Lizzy managed to stumble out of bed (actually, the sofa) and tossed the blanket off herself. She yawned again and stretched, still feeling groggy. She was still in her denim jeans from the night before and a plain but nice-looking brown top. She felt her hair and realized with dismay how messy it must be.

She padded to the small kitchen. There was a note from Jane lying on a table.

_Dear Lizzy, Charlie and I had to leave early to go to work. Charlie said to help yourself to anything in the fridge, because we certainly did. I'll see you later! Love, Jane_

Lizzy shrugged and opened the refridgerator door. Hmmm...She took out a carton of orange juice before checking the expiration date on its side. Satisfied with the information, she poured the last remaining juice in a glass she found in a cabinet. She felt slightly guilty as she watched the last droplets of the orange liquid fill the glass, but then she remembered that the apartment belonged to Will Darcy and how much she disliked him.

She got up from the table for a minute and went back into the living area. There was a tall bookshelf with a nice collection of works. She was going to select _The Princess Bride_ but changed her mind at the last minute to a book of Lorca poems. It looked to be an early edition of the poet's work, in fact, and it was entirely in Spanish. Good. She hated reading translations of the poems.

She went back to the table, swinging her legs back and forth in her chair and sipping the juice.

Then she heard footsteps in another room. She froze.

Hadn't Charlie and Jane left already?

A door creaked open and now there were footsteps coming closer to the kitchen.

She stayed seated, her mind working sluggishly in her just-awoken state.

But...if Jane and Charlie Bingley had left, then...

"Who the hell are _you_?" a voice behind Lizzy blurted out and she jumped in her seat.

The voice belonged to Will Darcy, clad in a T-shirt and—were those boxer shorts with little hearts and cupids on them? Yes, yes they were—and looking very angry.

_Stay calm, stay calm_, Lizzy told herself.

"Er..." Her mind couldn't fail her, not now! But she was so tired. "Er...I'm Lizzy," she said stupidly.

Darcy looked as though he'd like to wring her neck. "And _what_ are you doing in _my_ apartment, and why have you drunk _all_ my orange juice? And what could you possibly—_is that my book of Lorca poems?_" he asked furiously. He walked over to her and snatched the book from her hands. "So help you God, if you've gotten even a _drop_ of orange juice—_my_ orange juice—on _any_ of these pages—"

"I didn't spill anything," Lizzy snapped.

"It's an expensive edition, one of the—"

She interrupted him. "I'm here because Charlie Bingley told me it was okay."

"Charlie Bingley? How do you know Charlie Bingley?" He regarded her suspiciously. Now she was becoming angry.

"He goes out with my sister, Jane."

A look of recognition passed over Darcy's face. Lizzy huffed. But of course he hadn't remembered her at first; she was merely the sister of his friend's girlfriend who clearly wasn't blessed in the looks department. Or whatever he had said.

"And Charlie told you...that you could, what? Stay in my apartment?"

"Not indefinitely," Lizzy clarified. "Only for the night. Don't worry, I'm leaving right away." She got up from the table and stormed over to the living area.

"The door to the outside is the other way," Darcy called loudly, as if she were some dumb girl who couldn't find the exit!

She returned with her purse and a glare. "Well, thank you, I'm not sure I could have found my way out if you hadn't said anything." She walked to the door, opened it, and walked outside. "By the way," she said as she turned over her shoulder, "Nice boxers." And she slammed the door in his face as he blushed a deep red and mumbled something about a gag gift from someone named Georgiana.

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Charlotte wasn't back in their flat, so Lizzy did not have anybody to hear her rage about Darcy. How condescending and rude he was!

"I hate him! I hate him!" she yelled, half-hoping that Darcy, in his apartment on the other side of town, could hear.

She had to tell somebody about Darcy's behavior. She tried to call Charlotte at her work, but the receptionist said she was unavailable. Then she dialed Jane's unit work number.

"This is the Cardiac Unit," a bored nurse answered. "How can I help you?"

"Er, hello, my sister Jane Bennet works in your department. I wondered if I might speak with her?"

"You're Jane Bennet's sister?"

"Yes, that's right."

"The last time you called, you spent fifteen minutes on the phone with Jane, and that was when Mr. Klaff was having a second heart attack."

"Sorry. This is a family emergency, though. Promise."

"Fine, I'll go get her."

In a few minutes she heard Jane's frantic voice. "Lizzy? Lizzy? What's wrong? Is Mum all right?"

"No, she's not suffering from any bogus nervous symptoms as far as I know—"

"Is it Dad, then?"

"Calm down, Jane, everything's all right," Lizzy said quickly. "I just wanted to tell you how I met Will Darcy today."

"Will Darcy? Where did you meet him?"

"He was in his apartment. Apparently he was there all last night, he just didn't hear us when we came in."

"Oh my God! Well? He's a hottie, isn't he?"

"No, he's a rude arsehole."

"Lizzy!" Jane sounded shocked. "You don't really think that?"

"Yes, I do," Lizzy said staunchly. "Jane, he is one of the most grumpy and arrogant people I know. I don't know how Charlie puts up with him. I never told you what happened in the bookstore but..."

"Yes, a family emergency," Jane was speaking on the other end. "Who? Oh, my mother's mother...no, no, I never said...no, it's my _father's_ mother who passed away...Yes, I'm sure. Just a bit of a stroke. My sister's filling me in. Yes, I'll be fine..." She sighed as she spoke to Lizzy. "I wish you wouldn't do that."

"Do what?"

"Force me to tell lies whenever you call. Why can't you just say you need to speak with me?"

"Because you're working. They'd say to take the call on your break."

"Well? Why can't I call you back later?"

"Because I need to tell you what a prick Will Darcy is _right now!_"

A/N So there you have it: Lizzy and Darcy's second ecounter. Hopefully the story will be a little faster paced now that they've met. I had planned to make all the chapters from Lizzy's point of view (well, narrated through her eyes), but now I'm toying with the idea of inserting some Darcy thought in there as well. Tell me what you think.


	4. Football and the Party

**finally, chappie four is written! Thanks to those of you who've reviewed, it's been encouraging. So here is some more Darcy/Lizzy interaction. Enjoy!**

It was the big day of the match between Arsenal and Chelsea. Will Darcy was on the sidelines, listening to his coach along with the other players. Somehow his coach's motivational speech was going in one ear and out the other. He just couldn't keep his mind on anything.

There were news reporters swarming over the sidelines, trying to come closer and closer to the coach and the team.

Then, as they were instructed to warm up on the field, Darcy was accosted by one particular reporter.

"Why, Mr. Darcy!" the reporter exclaimed. Darcy, normally indifferent to reporters, regarded the sallow-faced, shorter man in front of him.

"Do I know you?"

"No, you don't know me, of course," the man said excitedly, "so I shall introduce myself. I am William Collins, a roving reporter for the London _Banner_. You are the nephew of the esteemed Catherine de Bourgh, single producer of the_ Banner. _I can't tell you how delighted I am to meet you at last! Your aunt was saying how she—"

"Excuse me, I must practice my passes before the game," Darcy said coldly and walked to the field. He swiftly kicked the ball to a teammate far on the other side of the field, and it was returned to him.

Then he saw a glimpse of long wavy brown hair on the sidelines and he stopped for a minute and missed the ball.

"All right, Will?" his teammate yelled to him.

"Yeah, yeah, just...sun in my eyes." He kicked the ball back again. Of course it couldn't be that girl. The one who slept on his sofa, and drank his orange juice, and somehow managed to pick out one of his favorite books of poems in his London apartment.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lizzy found that football players were more willing to discuss the match with reporters who were young, pretty, and female. She wasn't much of an anybody, and now suddenly she found herself standing next to one of the most famous footballers, Thierry Henry. She tried to act coolly as she fired her questions.

"With your left wing defender injured, what do you think will be the crucial—"

"Oh my God, Thierry Henry!" squealed a horribly familiar voice and one Lydia Bennet bounded into view. "You're so fit, will you sign my shirt?"

Lizzy was mortified. What was her sister doing at the game? "Er, do you mind? I'm trying to interview this man." She tried to sound intimidating. She also avoided giving any sign of recognition. _Please, just please go away.._

"Oh, Lizzy, don't be stingy. If my sister's interviewing Thierry Henry, I should think that she would help me get his autograph."

The French striker looked at her quizzically. "This eez your sister?"

Lizzy's face burned. "Yes," she admitted shamefully, after a moment of thinking she should pretend Lydia was simply a crazy girl and not give in. After all, she did know Lizzy's name, and that would be hard to deny.

Lydia would simply not go away and instead tried to pepper the football star with ridiculous questions, and finally Henry left after giving a hasty excuse.

"_Lydia_!" she exploded. "I'm trying to do my job, and you just embarrassed me in front of the one of the best football players!"

Lydia shrugged. "Oh well, you'll probably never see him again anyway."

"Why are you here?" Lizzy demanded furiously. "Is Mum here as well?"

"No, it's just me and Kitty. But did you know, Lizzy, that Arsenal is coming to Merryton to practice during the holidays?"

This gave Lizzy all the more reason to avoid her parents' home.

"I've been planning all sorts of ways to run into them, security guards or no security guards. You wait and see, I'll be dating one of them soon and he'll buy me all sorts of expensive presents!"

"You're _sixteen_," Lizzy said scornfully. "They wouldn't give you a second look. And I'm sure they'd prefer other famous people and not silly village girls. Now can you please go away and let me work."

No sooner than Lydia left for the fan stands than had another equally unwelcome person stepped into her view.

She tried to collect herself so as to not appear flustered. Standing in front of her now was Will Darcy, attired in his uniform. Lizzy had put away her notebook as she saw him coming; she wasn't about to interview _him_.

Apparently he had been making his way through the crowds in search of someone, and it was inevitable that they had to make some acknowledgment of greeting since they had made eye contact.

But Lizzy overestimated Will Darcy because he hurriedly looked in the opposite direction as he passed her, leaving her gaping like a fish.

Lizzy went to stand on the sidelines; the match would begin in a half-hour. Suddenly she was aware of someone trailing behind her as she wove through the people. She pretended to check her bag and caught a glimpse of Will Darcy, wordlessly walking behind her. Typical. He was also following her closely since the crowd was jostling them every which way.

Lizzy was feeling in the mood for a little confrontation.

She slowed down, almost to a stop, and he bumped into her. She turned around.

"Why, hello, Darcy."

"Hello." Lizzy wondered if he had forgotten her name. Probably.

"Do you think you'll win, Mr. Darcy?"

"Yes."

"You seem to be a man of few words, aside from when you're yelling at other people. You're not at a loss of speech _then_."

He blushed for a moment. "'Scuse me, have to go," he mumbled and practically took off for the field.

"Ha," Lizzy gloated

-

Charlie and the rumors were right; Arsenal did beat Chelsea. Lizzy wrote up the report for the match and sent it to her editor.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

"Oy! Will!" one of Will Darcy's teammates called out to him one day before practice. "Look at this article."

"What about it?"

"Read it."

Darcy read it. It gave a fine description of the plays of the game for the first part while the second part dealt with the performance of individual players. In fact, it mostly dealt with the performance of one Will Darcy.

_"...seemed to be in possession of the ball more than necessary, when a pass would have been __the best choice..."__"perhaps his pride prevents him from working well with others when all eyes are on him..."_

_In other words, I'm big-headed,_ Darcy thought.

"Almost this whole part of the article talks about me," he said in disbelief.

"And none of it's flattering," added a third teammate.

"What did you _do_ to that reporter?"

Darcy looked at the byline.

"Elizabeth Bennet? How the hell would I know someone named..." He stopped. "Wait a minute...Bennet...Elizabeth..._Lizzy_. Elizabeth _would_ be her formal name. Oh crap."

"So you do know her after all?"

"We've been acquainted," Darcy said stiffly.

Their coach walked over. "Darcy, why are you getting such bad publicity? Our team depends on our fans, you know. Try to be more appealing to the public. And a bit nicer to reporters."

Darcy soon learned what was expected of him the following week.

"I've arranged for you to attend a party commemorating the sixtieth birthday of one of our team sponsors. Everyone who is everyone will be there, including many prominent reporters. Even the head of the _Banner_ will be present."

"Not _her_," Darcy muttered vehemently.

"You know Catherine de Bourgh?"

"Know her? She's my aunt."

"Really? Is she as overbearing as everyone says she is?"

"Worse. Why do I have to go?"

"Publicity, Darcy. You must be charming so that the public won't think you are—what were the words used?—ah, a 'big-headed, arrrogant man'' who 'thinks he is too grand to mingle with us "lower" people?'"

Darcy started, incredulous. "That was published in a _football_ article?"

"No, in a gossip magazine. They've picked up on this controversial image of you, created by your charming Miss Bennet. Because you represent Arsenal, you're going to work hard to win yourself back in their favor."

"Oh, Christ," he muttered. He hated loud, crowded parties.

----------------------------------------------------------------

The party commemorating Mr. Beady was indeed loud and crowded and so he hated it within the first five minutes of being there. It seemed as though every reporter on the face of the earth was there, with the exception of the one who really intrigued him.

He wasn't exactly angry with Elizabeth Bennet, which was odd. Normally he would be extremely vexed if anyone else had published a criticism of his performance, and one that he felt wasn't entirely deserved.

An hour into the party he came across the reporter of his musings, who was conversing with that odious reporter of his aunt's newspaper. Actually it rather looked as if he were doing all the talking and she was only nodding and trying to get away. Or so he perceived.

With only a moment of hesitation, he took a few steps across the room.

"Hello, Miss Bennet."

She half-turned, surprised to see him. "Darcy."

"Ah, you know my patron's nephew?" Collins said excitedly, looking from Lizzy to Darcy.

Of course Lizzy had heard all about the famed Catherine de Bourgh, a sort of modern-day Pulitzer or Hearst; this reporter Collins had talked her ear off about the woman for nearly the entire half hour they'd been talking. Multiple times she had tried to extricate herself from the conversation but to no avail. She didn't know how, of all the interesting people to be met in the room, she had managed to stumble into this one first, a man whose worship of Catherine de Bourgh bordered along the line of deranged obsession.

So it was news to her that Darcy was this woman's flesh and blood. "_Nephew_?" she queried aloud.

"Yes, I'm her nephew," he reiterated. They stared at each other for a second until Collins broke the silence.

"I was just saying to Elizabeth how your aunt was telling me the other day what a _comprehensive_ report I gave her when she instructed me to interview some prominent Labour party members on the newest bill. Your aunt constantly relies on my—permit me to say—strong leadership qualities to get a job done. I command a full section of writers for the _Banner_, nearly eleven people—"

"_Eleven_?" Lizzy asked in an interested voice that only belied her sarcasm.

"Yes, my dear Eliza—"

_Eliza?_ Lizzy wondered, so astonished by his nickname for her that she nearly forgot he had called her "my dear..."

"—and my underlings, I flatter myself, think themselves fortunate to have such a superior as myself."

"Yeah, how lucky they are," she replied with utter seriousness in her tone; again her irony was wasted on Collins. "I feel inadequate myself, a mere reporter, speaking to you. I must leave and find other lowly reporters of my own station. Goodbye," she said cheerfully and finally left Collins.

And Darcy, who hadn't said more than a few words, which was absolutely typical.

To think he was related to Catherine de Bourgh. She was a ruthless businesswoman who had acquired the _Banner_ nearly seven years ago when it was in a bad place and she had restored it to its former glory. She was powerful and could destroy anyone she wished by the power of the press—her press—and was rumored to be arrogant and ill-tempered. (_Must run in the family_, Lizzy had thought wryly.)

She went to get a drink after finding Stan, the corresponding photographer from their own newspaper, and briefly catching up with him. She spoke to a representative for Arsenal and the personal assistant of Mr. Beady for some quotes she might use later. Instead of using a notebook, however, she used a tape recorder. Everyone was only too happy to promote the team and its benefactors.

She saw Collins heading for her and ducked into an adjoining room—a ballroom in the old mansion—and headed for the drink table. She tried a glass of white wine as a large shape came up next to her and chose a glass of red.

It was Darcy. Bad timing indeed. If she couldn't evade Collins, she would have to suffer Darcy's presence, as karma would have it.

She didn't attempt conversation this time and was surprised when it was initiated by him.

"Are you enjoying yourself, Miss Bennet?"

"You don't have to call me 'Miss Bennet'. It's too formal-sounding." She took another sip of the wine and then gave the rest to a waiter; it wasn't to her liking. She walked over to an attendants' station.

"Then what do you prefer to be called?"

He was still right beside her, now walking at her fast pace. She handed her bag with its tape recorder to an attendant with a quick thank-you, without even a look at Darcy. "You can call me Lizzy, I suppose, or Elizabeth."

"But not Eliza, I'm guessing?"

It took her a minute to realize he was lightly joking with her, in reference to Bill Collins.

"No," she said swiftly, permitting the corners of her mouth to turn upwards ever to slightly. "Not Eliza."

He was still walking with her—though now she had slowed her pace—as she walked back into the ballroom.

"So...are you enjoying yourself?" he asked her for the second time.

"Not really. Well...yes, I suppose. It's exciting to be on an assignment from my newspaper. And this _is_ a prominent party. Maybe next time I'll cover a story that's actually within my realm of interests."

"And what kind of stories are those?"

"Ones that have to do with politics. Global politics in particular. International relations."

He risked a glance at her expression before risking, "Not football?"

She avoided his eyes. "No. Not football." They walked in silence for a moment. "I only covered the story of the Arsenal-Chelsea match because the weekly reporter who does football write-ups requested me to fill in for him. He was on vacation. Unfortunately I don't have a lot of experience in covering sports."

"I read the article. You did a fine enough job in describing the match...up until your little bash about me."

Now she did look at him. "I took nothing that wasn't there."

"I do not hog the ball!" he said indignantly.

"I didn't actually write—"

"But you implied it.

"You did hold on to the ball longer than I thought you should."

"Says the reporter who doesn't know anything about football."

"You're doing it again."

"Doing what?"

"Assuming things. And you know what they say, To assume makes an 'ass' out of 'u' and 'me'."

He snorted without meaning to. "And what assumptions am I making?"

"I _do_ know about football, I used to play myself. I just don't always keep up with every team, and I hadn't reported on it before. But I know all about the game itself."

At this point Lizzy felt a tap on her shoulder, and lo and behold, there was Collins, attempting a winning smile that looked more like a leer, which Lizzy was sure wasn't his intention. Her own smile was a grimace.

"My dear Eliza—"

"Elizabeth," Darcy quickly corrected the man from their left. Both looked at him.

"My dear Elizabeth," Collins began again, "Would you like to dance?" He added, as if to hammer a battering ram into the point, "With _me_?"

"I..." Lizzy thought about this. She really wanted to dance, just not with Collins. But she couldn't refuse him and then go dance, it was bad manners. And after all, songs were only about four minutes, tops. How bad could it be? "...sure."

"Excellent!" He grabbed her hand with his own sweaty one and propelled her to the dance floor.

Lizzy should have reconsidered the moment Collins began to dance. He looked like an idiot. It was a fast dance, and his arms were flailing out all over the place, his knees jerking around as if he were dancing on a hot bed of coals. His eyes never left her face, and she noticed his eyebrows were wiggling up and down in every manner imaginable. She tried to concentrate on something, anything else. She was mortified, especially when Stan appeared near them, grinning, and snapped a picture.

The dance ended. Whew. She went to leave Collins, but a slow song had started and before she knew what was happening one arm was around her waist and one gripping her hand.

"Er...I really don't feel like dancing anymore."

"What's that, dear?"

"I said I don't want to dance anymore," she said loudly.

"It's just a slow one. Not much to it."

That was the problem. All they had to do was sway back and forth and they were too close. It was awkward as anything.

From behind Collins she could see Darcy slowly coming up behind him. He made eye contact with her. What was he doing?

Will Darcy tapped Collins on the shoulder. "Excuse me, you've danced with her long enough," he said bluntly. "Can I have a go?"

Collins's first reaction was one of irritation which melted smoothly into graceful retreat—after all, this man was the nephew of his patron—and he handed Lizzy over to him. Darcy was used to getting his own way, after all.

"Of course, sir, of course...I'll just go and find something else to do." He left them abruptly. Lizzy was speechless.

Darcy looked at her expression. "I only wanted to dance with you to discuss the article and defend myself," he said, rather ungallantly, "but now I really don't feel like talking about it."

Lizzy, surprisingly, wasn't in the mood to pick a fight, either—at least not tonight.

Instead Lizzy turned the conversation to other things. Darcy chimed in every now and then. In fact, Lizzy was almost glad when the song was over—she still couldn't understand how he couldn't seem to say anything, how he made every social situation awkward. It was strange dancing with someone and not saying two words to them.

Still, it beat the pants off dancing with Collins. Lizzy escaped from the party when the night was over having nothing to do with the reporter for the rest of the evening—although, to her dismay, when she got her coat back from the attendant and reached her hands inside the pockets, she found a slip of paper with Collins' phone number.


End file.
